Plug-Ins

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The last few days have been a bit rocky, with a little depression and uncontrolled tears. It's a spiral down into a dark place. I can feel the shift happening in my brain, the language goes from "maybe, hope so, it's possible" to "never, it's hopeless, impossible".

It's not just missing the love of my life. That's bad enough.

It's a story I start telling myself about how lonely I am and how maybe I'll always be this lonely and that I'm not worthy of love and soon I'm imagining myself homeless and dead, alone.

I call it the death spiral and I think I stole that name from one of my favorite bloggers, Heather Armstrong from Dooce.com. She believes she has the fastest death spiral in the west, but I think mine might be a close second.

The way to stop my death spiral is to plug into life in some way: make plans with someone to do something fun, sign up for a class I've always wanted to take, drive somewhere I've never been, watch a ridiculous movie, even simply take a walk.

I have to snap myself out of a death spiral before it can take me to the very bottom, which is a scary, dark place to be. Even if I return to the death spiral a little after trying to plug in, usually the plug-in has already led me somewhere slightly better. It's reminded me of the bigger story - that there's life out there to live, beauty to see, and what's happened to me doesn't mean I died too.

I was rereading a post I wrote a while ago during another one of these spirals I had. I wrote about how I'd joined a choir, signed up for a cooking class and started a grief recovery class. I realize now that all three of those plug-ins helped draw me up and out of that black place.

And even better, they now continue to deliver little rewards, but I love going to choir practice most of all.

I have always adored choir music. There is something about many voices blending together beautifully that stirs my soul like nothing else.

The moment a choir begins to sing in the middle of a popular song (think Madonna's Like a Prayer or Pat Benatar's We Belong) the goosebumps break out all over me as my soul lifts right out of my chest and floats up out of me. Seriously, that's the best way I can describe how it feels.

I had always wished to sing in a choir but hadn't made it happen yet.

Suddenly, while in that particular death spiral, I felt my heart search for something that would lift it and "join a choir" popped into my mind. I see now how instinct took over and got me to where I needed to be for my own healing.

My heart needed to sing in a choir. Who knew?

Now, I look forward to Monday nights because that's when I find myself sitting alongside dozens of other women, blending my voice with theirs while all of our souls rise up together in harmony. It feels like my heart's been carbonated.

Every time I plug in to life again, the death spiral's hold loosens and I find reasons to live, a moment of joy or wonder, or a reminder of the ways I've actually got it good, despite my loss.

Sometimes the plug in has to be something very basic, like watching a 30 Rock marathon while snuggling with the cats and other times it's something a little more adventurous like joining a choir.

Either way, it gives my broken heart what it needs to heal and it short circuits the death spiral long enough to get my feet under me again.

Grounding

I'd never describe myself as an "outdoorsy" person.

That's not to say that I'm a princess.  I am happy to get dirty in the garden or go fishing and smell like the sea all day.  I love the feeling of sand between my toes and the winter sun on my back.  I love to walk through the bush and I love to stroll along the beach. 

.... just so long as I can come home to a hot shower, a fresh coffee and a flushing toilet.

Perhaps it is because my first career involved days and days of walking along snake-infested tracks in the rain to measure trees in plantations.  It kinda takes the shine off bush-walking and being "at one with nature" when you HAVE to do it everyday.

Greg loved to be outdoors.  When given the choice, he would always rather be outside. He was from a long line of farmers after all, and lived for the days he could spend riding a  motorbike or tractor around familiar paddocks and lane ways.
He loved camping, he loved gardening, he loved bush walking (he climbed Queensland's highest peak in 1day when most people take at least 2 days), he loved native birds and insects.  A year after we met, he and his brother spent a month on dirt bikes loaded with swags and camping gear and rode and camped their way along dirt tracks and make-shift river crossings, right to the northern-most tip of Australia ....

He felt at home in the bush.

Lately, the kids and I have been walking around the local bushland area.  It is a very calming and grounding place to be.

...and somewhere I feel very connected to Greg.  To the point where I *know* I am not alone in my meandering along bush tracks.

...and while I am still not keen on camping, have no desire to measure a plot of 5 year old saplings in the rain during snake - mating season Spring, I am starting to realise that just *being* outdoors brings such a calmness.

A connection with the earth, with life, with love.

I feel as though my nature-loving boy is walking right alongside me. 
In fact I *know* my nature-loving boy is walking right alongside me.

....and I am better for it.

I Didn't

One of the comments on my post from last Monday got to me. It stuck in my brain and will rattle around in there until I write about it.


She said that a woman in her grief group had a mantra she'd repeat to herself over and over again. Her mantra was "My husband died. I didn't".

Yesterday, somebody who means a great deal to me reminded me that my life isn't over. I have a long life ahead of me. When I heard it, I realized that I hadn't been letting myself believe it fully.

Logically, I can see that my chances of living to old age are good and there's no evidence to support the idea that I'll be kicking the bucket any time soon. I'm still young and healthy. There's also no evidence to support the chance that I'll spend the rest of my life alone. Not that it couldn't happen, just that it's not likely.


Somehow, though, in my heart, I'd felt as though the chance for happiness and love and even a family of my own was taken away from me on June 4, 2011. I'm afraid to hope sometimes. Occasionally, I worry that an essential part of me died on that terrible day and that without that part of me, I'm only a shell of a human being.

But, I didn't die. And my dreams and hopes for the rest of my life shouldn't die either. Maybe a part of me did die on that day, but the essential me is still here. Battered and heartbroken, but still here and still insisting on living.


I think I've been chanting that mantra in my soul all along. It's been a battle cry sometimes, a weak whimper other times, but it's been there. It's kept me afloat all these months and it will continue to.


In two days, I'll be boarding a plane to be with other people who have been living that mantra with me. Whether they believe it all the time or not, they exemplify it to me. They are living. We are living. Maybe even living a little extra for our precious loved ones who didn't get to.


I can't wait to be surrounded by them.

a choice

Photo from here....

I spend a lot of time loathing what has "become" of my life. Ruminating over the "before" and "after". Taking stock of the injustice of losing my beloved so early in my life. Wishing life now was different.

But when I imagine having a life that was so dramatically different and without the pain of Jeff's death and all the repercussions from his premature expiration date, I realize that I have erased him and all the good things as well. No memories of dancing slowly to Van Morrison in the wheel house of his boat to remember. No birth of our children to hold dear. No ripples of laughter shared when telling the stories of our life together.

And although it is and has been hard and painful, I realize that I would do it again. If I had the choice to go back knowing how soon it would all be over, I would still go back. I would relive every special, annoying, sweet, loving and funny moment if only I could spend it again....with full knowledge that he would be gone too soon.

I would choose him....and this life over and over again.....

guilt and acceptance

First posted 7 months post-widowhood on personal blog

I have worried since Jeff's death that he didn't know how much I loved him. The stupid things I did and the things I took for granted have weighed so heavily on my mind. I have felt terribly and guilty for the things that I complained about and the issues I thoughtwere important.
Since Jeff's death I have realized that these 'things' were nothing. Not important. Not worth the words or the breath I used to express them.
I have always known Jeff loved me. I have always felt his comforting presence and his teddy bear gentleness when it came to 'us'. I have never doubted that he loved me and I was his 'Snuggles'.
A friend recently expressed her worry that when she dies, it will be after she has lost her patience, yelled or been in a generally foul mood. She worried that this would be the last thing her kids or husband remembered about her. I assured her that it wouldn't. That they'd remember all of her and those times of stress and anger would be forgiven and almost forgotten.
I told her of the last few minutes I had with Jeff before he died. He had been an ASS. He had told the doctor that he thought I was hoping he was having a heart attack so I could 'be right'. I had replied, "No, Jeff. I am concerned about you. I am worried and I want to find out what is wrong."
Jeff didn't like going to doctors. He didn't like to admit that anything was wrong. He could be combative and angry trying to dissuade me from taking him to a doctor. Years ago, he once told me that he would leave me if I took him to the hospital again after he had passed out on the floor and was turning blue. It became the source of laughter just days later. But it didn't mean he didn't love me. It meant he didn't like going to the doctor. He didn't like being 'told what to do'. As simple as that.
Since telling my friend about these incidents, I have been thinking about it. I am realizing that even though I have had my complete 'ass' moments, Jeff most likely had the same feelings about me. That I am human. I obsess about ridiculousness much to my detriment just as he did. Even though he was angry with me for dragging him to the doctor, I was there. I was trying to save his life. I loved him enough to go up against his defiance and fury to find out what was wrong. Even after he used these angry words, I tried to save him. I would have no matter what he ever said, did or was. I knew he loved me. And I loved him. He died in my arms as I tried to save him. And, now, I am sure he knew I loved him. And it is a relief. I can let go of my guilt. I can realize I am human and like everyone else, I am imperfect. He loved me despite of it all. And I loved him despite any of his faults. And he knew.

give me one reason

In any tragedy, early loss or hard lesson, we look for a reason behind it. The "why". Over the last three years I have searched for the explanation, or rationale, for Jeff's death and all the aftermath of his loss. Not the reason written on his autopsy certificate or the coroner's report. Something deeper. Something less concrete but still as real...and "good". I have searched for a sort of justification for his loss. Some signal that the repercussions for his death were not all negative and in vain. I have felt the flicker of atonement when an acquaintance had heard that Jeff's reluctance to go to the doctor resulted in his death and insisted her husband go to the doctor for a persistently bothersome throat...only to find out that he had cancer and possibly had a chance to catch it in time. I felt some sort of rationale - maybe Jeff saved someone else's daddy in a round about way. While signing a co-worker's life insurance papers as a witness after telling them of our life insurance debacle and how life would be so different for the kids and me if I didn't have to worry about money, I felt an acknowledgement for our loss. Someone wouldn't have to face widowhood with children and not know how they would provide for them financially. After singlehandedly installing six fence posts correctly in our backyard with only the help of a postpounder, a level and a ladder (plus an extremely zealous four-year old boy), I wondered over whether I would have not only been able to do this before Jeff's death and if I would have had the confidence to unquestioningly tackle the project alone. I certainly feel that will never be a good enough reason for losing my beloved...But there may be some other purpose behind his loss. A string of positive happens that would not have happened if I were able to hold him just a little longer. Hopefully, each loss of each of our spouses has caused some amount of positive to ripple through humanity. Because I need some amount of rationale. Some amount of explanation. Some amount of knowledge that my love's life did not go unnoticed.

someone to watch over me

Photo from here...

Recently, I was told of a widowed father who was married within one year of losing his wife. The story was told with the tones of scandal and betrayal. It was insinuated that if this poor man had truly loved his wife, he wouldn't have remarried so quickly or 'easily'.


I have heard stories such as this a few times since Jeff died. I have understood the implications of people not in our shoes that remaining single after losing your mate to death shows the outside world something of your feelings surrounding the loss of your mate.


But none of us widowed people seem to stand up very often and say, "Hold on a minute! I understand the impetus that propelled that person."


We are all too ashamed or embarassed by the memories of our own desires and hopes that finding someone to love us or fill the gap of the parent that our children/families would soothe our hearts.


I remember that before Jeff died we'd occasionally talk about what we'd do if/when the other person died. I SWORE I would never want to physically share a bed with another man. I truly believed it.


But when Jeff died, I longed to have someone hold me. I most certainly wished it could be Jeff....but since he was dead, I would cast my eyes about searching, hoping, needing the comfort that another body can provide. I would take inventory of my single male friends and wonder if they could/would protect me and my kids. If any of them would touch me and hold me and love me.


Of course, the people that I spent most of my time with wouldn't have understood this need - so I kept quiet.


But now when I speak to other widow/ers, those dark, early days are sometimes dredged up into conversation. And it seems to be pretty universal. We all long to have someone to hold us. To smooth down our hair. To love us. To watch over us.


And in the absence of the one we truly want, I am sure that occasionally the "stand-in" can fall into a small space made where the huge void developed. And maybe that is love. A new love.


I know that no one should judge this. It just is. And if it brings comfort and soothes a broken heart, who is anyone to say if it is "right" or "wrong".

they are okay

There are days or moments that I watch my little ones and think, "Bloody Hell. They are going to be so messed up after all they've been through." Then there are times that I see them blossom and bloom with smiles, laughter and play where I think, "If you didn't know what had happened, you would think these two had a 'normal' life."

All I know for sure, is that no matter how our lives unfold, they are stronger because they have eachother.

They still know how to laugh and be silly without guilt or remorse.

And that these two little ones are the most amazing teachers of living after your life has stopped.

I am practising seeing the world through their eyes....It isn't as dark as it is through mine.

Originally posted 7 1/2 months after losing their daddy on our personal blog.

lurking tragedy

Photo from here...

Since the death of Jeff, I am ALWAYS searching for reason or explanation for each occurrance that unfolds in my life. I have become adept at looking for, and most often finding, the "brightside". Searching out the blessings. The gifts that, however difficult to see initially, reveal themselves as the shock of trauma wears away.

I have found that despite some very hard learning experiences, I seem to eventually bounce (almost) back. Although not unscathed by these events, I have found hope hidden in unexpected corners. It has been one of the gifts of losing the love of my life - I now can see clearly what is 'real'.

But now, suddenly, out of the blue, I am unable to climb back up. I am struggling with too much on my plate, too many issues needing to be dealt with and a grief that won't dissipate.

I smile and function. I do my job. I clean the house. I am struck by the kindness and love from others. But my heart is aching. The hope that I have been so able to suss out seems to have wandered elsewhere. All I can see is this life reaching beyond me with hurdle after hurdle to be leaped over. It doesn't seem to end and I am exhausted in every sense of the word. I miss Jeff with all my heart. I am suddenly fearful of the loss of my children to death. I feel like another tragedy is just around the corner at all moments. Lurking unseen to leap at me unexpectedly. Maybe this is why I feel that it will come - I don't want to be surprised so I force myself to expect it.

I don't understand why, now, after all this time, I am aching again. I know that much of my sadness and exhaustion is situational.....But these situations seem to keep coming.

I want to be hopeful and joyful. A testament to the fact that life goes on. But right now, I kind of wish it didn't.

flying solo

Photo from here

I am finding this new responsibility of being thrust into the world of solitary decision making terrifying...But I am doing it and it's okay. I would prefer to bounce all these thoughts, necessary choices and responsibilities off of Jeff, but I can't. So as I forge ahead with my life alone, I am finding these mountains that I am climbing difficult; but in someways, I am getting better at them. I am learning to trust myself and the believe that I can make these decisons alone. That I know what is right for me...or us.
Today, I sold our car. The car that Jeff bought me for Valentine's Day in 2006. The car Jeff died in. My little blue Toyota Matrix. It was small, safe and economical....But we had the truck for carrying larger loads and muddy dogs. I didn't need to bring multiple children in the car very often as I wasn't caring for anyone other than my kiddos or the occasional playdate.
But now, life is different. I am going to need to look to a future where I can bring in an income and care for my children alone. I need to be able to move objects by myself and cart various things home that would not fit in my little car.
So now, I own a minivan. I decided and made the deal myself. It was scary and I kept worrying that I was being taken advantage of....Possibly a bit paranoid. But I did it. Myself.
The kids and I quite like the van. It's a few years older than the car thus making it more affordable. It's clean and safe. It is blue just as my little car was...Jeff's favourite colour as Liv pointed out.
Liv had her trepidation about buying the van. She cried the first night and asked me to go get the car back because it reminded her of Daddy. I remembered crying when my dad talked of selling our little Vauxhal (a little white German car that our family had when I was a child - it`s floor was rusted out, we would watch the road go by as we drove along and we sang songs about `Daddy`s little Vauxhal`). It was certainly a different circumstance but I could empathize with her feelings of security and comfort in the car....especially after losing so much this year. But now, it is like a fort. She wants to show all her friends her new van. They ask to `play in the van`. I am loving the space and the ability to comfortably take our friends along.
So although one door has closed, another has opened. I do feel sad. I do have such fond memories of our little car that I had thought the kids would learn to drive. But I must be flexible and not hold onto things that do not provide the needs we now have just because they are a link to Jeff. This is a hard lesson to learn. But I am doing it.

Originally posted Nov. 29, 2008 - 8 months 4 days post-Jeff on my blog

touchdown

Photo from "Day one" by Ameena Rojee.

Originally posted Tuesday, December 30, 2008 (after nine months of widowhhood) on my blog.

It’s here again. The brief agonizingly sharp pain of awakening. Like from a coma. Or a nightmare and realizing that it is reality.
I walk around as an automaton. I feed the kids. I wash my face. I buy chicken feed. I seem to be moving. I seem to be alive. Sometimes, I believe it myself. I think, “Okay. We’ll be okay. I can do this.” People tell me that I look good. That I seem to be healing. It’s not me. It’s the robot that applied my make-up. It is the instinct that drives me. It’s the habit of years of doing before my life ended.
Now, I put the bleach in the fridge. I forget to feed the fish for weeks and one of them dies of starvation. I mean to buy Christmas gifts for people. But Christmas passes and I still haven’t done it. I don’t phone people back. I don’t even remember that they called. I leave the house a mess until I impale my foot on a thumb tack dropped days before.
People say that they too suffer from this affliction. Yes, I used to laugh at my forgetting ways and ‘mommy brain’. This is different. There is no one at the helm.
Often, I hear myself talking. But I don’t really know what I am saying. I am gone. I am asleep. The lights are on, but no one is home.
Then, I wake for short periods of time. I wake and scream. I lock the bathroom door to get the only privacy I can get. I sob and cry out. I pull my hair. I want to throw up. I swear. I rage. I want out of this hell.
I worry that what is happening will cause more grief for my children. Will cause judgement from others. But I can’t help it. I can’t stop crying. I can’t pour out the pain fast enough to get it together to hold these two little souls close and tell them the lie again, “It is going to be okay.”
I have no one to call. Jeff died. Everyone else who lives in this house is under four feet tall. People outside this house have their own problems. Everyone tells me to let them know if I need help. I won’t. They have families and lives they need to attend to. In all honesty, I often don’t want to talk. To see anyone. To maintain these fucking ridiculous social graces that no longer mean a rat’s ass to me.
I know this keeps going. I know that it is too long. I know that my lack of healing is a burden. I know that it is more comfortable for everyone if I just maintain the façade. So I do. And I close up again. And my children can see a mother who doesn't cry out and moan from the loss. I go back to my hiding place inside. I curl up in the foetal position and resume my slumber until the next time I wake to find that it is true. And he is gone.

Christmas together

Photo from here...

Tomorrow is the day that we have all been building up to in the last few months.
I am sure that, like me, you are overwhelmed, tired and emotional. Preparing for this day is, at the best of times, exhausting.....but alone, it seems unsurmountable.
Please remind yourself to breathe deeply. To be gentle with yourself and to allow peace into your heart.
And although you may feel alone, you are not. I am here. And you are here.

“May the spirit of Christmas bring you peace, the gladness of Christmas give you hope, the warmth of Christmas grant you love.”~Author Unknown

two hands where four are needed

I recently found a "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff Workbook". It is full of quizzes and exercises to force you to look inward at yourself. This introspection makes me realize that I am pretty 'normal' if not, less 'sweaty' than the average person. I've been really enjoying 'getting to know myself' in the 5 minutes I take now and then to complete a section. And it's interesting to compare 'me' now to 'me' before.
I am much more chill than I once was. Less worried about many of the problems that plagued me before Jeff died. That's not to say that they don't annoy/pester/frustrate/even terrify me - just less so now. Most of these issues will not kill me. They MAY force us to live in a cardboard box but, hey, at least we'd have a roof over our heads!
BUT when I read the tip the other night that directs you to do ONE THING AT A TIME, it made me jealous. That green eyed monster made me want to live the life of the people who have the luxury of completing one. task. before starting something new.
I know I felt that I was busy and always needed before, when I was a non-widow. But I was just a pussy.
I now cannot fathom walking down the hall without a pocket full of lego to deposit in my son's room, an armpit full of drawing tools to return to my daughter, a hand shoving the vacuum before me, a signed permission slip hanging from my teeth while dragging the laundry hamper along behind me on my way to the back door to stack firewood, fix the shed door and dig an irrigation ditch next to the driveway.
I am not sweating the small stuff. I am just trying to stay on top of two people's work with just two hands and one head. And sometimes, it really blows.

the wishlist

My children are aware that Christmas is in 23 days. Already they are making their preparations for the big day. Snow flakes already adore most of the windows in our house, our advent calendar is hanging above the fireplace and letters to Santa are ready to post. After ruminating long and hard over what she would write, my eight year old daughter, Liv, stood up from the kitchen table with a letter for Santa clutched in her skinny, little hands. Hope and excitement lit her face.
"Do you think Santa can bring whatever you ask for if you only ask for one thing?", she whispered.
"It depends what it is, I suppose", I answered nervously imagining pink polka-dotted unicorns and hot-air balloon rides to the moon being requested. I was surprised when she handed over her note.
Her words make me vacillate between laughter and tears....
I don't know what I'd do without these little people who make life so much harder and some much more bearable in one motion.

P.S. Briar asked for a remote control monster truck taller than his head. Not as emotionally charged, but certainly enough to strike fear in a mother's heart. How the HECK is Santa going to pull off Christmas????

not all bad

Photo from here...

When we think of being widowed, we most often think of the sadness, the loss and the loneliness created in the wake of our loss. We reflect on what once was. We imagine and recreate what could have been 'if only'. We long to be transported back in time to when life seemed sweeter and kinder.
Rarely do we think of the blessings we have gained. The lessons we have learned. The better people we have become.
I know that since Jeff died, I take the positives in my life less for granted. This is not to say that I don't still grumble like a petulent child when life doesn't provide what I feel it should. But I am certainly more aware of the amazing and awe-filled things that those touched by trauma are gifted with. I notice the small crystalline patterns created in the dog's water dish and marvel at their beauty. I realize that I am either going crazy or have been struck by some seemingly silly, glowing warmth that makes me....grateful that there is still breathtaking beauty in the world.
I realize now just how lucky I was to have found such love in my life and even when we argued over who's way was the 'correct' way to load the dishwasher, I was blessed.
I feel the gift of knowing that life does not revolve around 'what' but 'who'. This fact was probably known to me before losing Jeff....but not internalized. I still have the occasional longing for a pair of coveted gumboots, but I realize that in 15 years those same boots may lay lifeless and forgotten in my shoe rack....and those who I actually love may be lifeless as well....but certainly not forgotten.
I feel a peace that I did not once possess. I know that I cannot change much of what happens in the world or my life. Events happen. Losses occur. I cannot dictate these happenings. I can only control my own actions. This brings my soul a form of solace. Worrying will not change what may happen. I can only face what has happened.
Although life is less sweet without my love sharing it with me, it is sweetened somewhat with the realizations and epiphanies my loss has opened my eyes to. And I am grateful for these blessings.

time after time

Photo from Holly Northrop

I keep returning here to write something. To let you all know that things are okay and that life goes on and we are happy. They are, it does and often we are.
But I am feeling the weight lately of a realization. One I should have had two years and eight months ago.
This is FOREVER.
Not solely being without Jeff.
But taking the garbage out by myself. Half-heartedly laughing at a movie alone. Waking up with two frightened children and their nightmares. Making turkey dinner for three.
All of it. Alone. All of it on me. All of it, my responsibility.
The monotony of continuing on is exhausting. The strength needed to smile and be optimistic waning.
I am at a point where I feel like my 'get out of jail free/talk about Jeff as much as I want' card is expiring and I should allow a conversation to pass without dropping his name. But I am not ready. He is still my lover/friend/husband.
I want to write about it all. I want to talk about it. I know that so many will tell me that it is MY timetable and to do what I need to do....But I also wonder about other's patience and my sanity for remaining in the world of 'what was'.
I am so painfully lonely....and writing about it seems so terribly lame and pathetic. I have never felt this lonely. Socially, I am quite satisfied. I have great friends. A ridiculously busy life. No 'free' time.
But 'intimately', I am starving. I want to whisper in the dark to someone who will whisper back. I need to know that there is someone, who happens to have a physical body, that has genuine interest in the intricacies of my mind and my little family. To feel that when I am drowning under an ocean of mundane yet necessary tasks, that someone will help....just because. I want to be touched. I want to not be alone. I want to have the luxury of allowing fear and vulnerability in.
I want to be loved again.
....And I feel so pathetic for writing about this loneliness yet again.

thank you....mostly

Photo from Sycamore Street Press

I met a recently widowed woman in the doctor's office the other day. We talked sadly yet conspiratorially. I nodded as she mentioned having trouble trusting herself in public as she was concerned she would either throw up her hands and scream at all the ridiculous and vacuous frivolity that seems to go on in the world unnoticed by 'normal' folk or break down and sob gut-wrenching tears when faced with the choice of buying whole milk (her dead husband's favourite) or skim.

As I drove home after giving her my number and strict instructions to call if she needed to, I dredged up some of the partially archived memories and thoughts from those very early widowed days. I remembered how annoying and labour intensive every small task was and how I felt that I could see through the inane societal expectations.

I remember the suggestion that filled me with confusion and, somewhat, with anger was a family member's insistence that I begin to write thank-you notes. Everything within me screamed bitterly at this implication.

I was and remain very thankful of everything that had been done for, given to or assisted with for the remaining members of our little family. I was so touched and comforted by those who came by (although I was unable to greet them as I was more prone to laying in my bed staring at the imperfections in the drywall). I felt humbled by the empathy and kindness of those who loved us and even of strangers. I was relieved that my children were being fed because I was unable to make anything for them. People's generousity was a balm to the aching 'alone-ness' that I felt every second after he died. I was grateful. I still am. I will always be....even for the actions of those who I do not remember...either from the lack of ability to concentrate post-Jeff or from the sedative effect of the meds that the doctor had prescribed.

But I still feel that marking these acts of kindness and generosity with a card is brutal and hard.

When you're well and upbeat it is not a difficult feat to buy, write in, address and mail a small note letting the generous party know that you appreciate their thought. You have plenty to say....and often, you have a helper (husband or wife) to assist in the daunting task.

Weddings, birthdays and other festive events are truly wonderful moments in our lives to be chipper and express our grateful nature. Our eyes are smiling, our hearts are joyful and the generousity of others is given to share in the joy of others - not for the needs of the heartbroken.

I believe that the birth of a baby is cause to celebrate....but it is a bit iffy in the thank-you note department. The last thing I want a dear friend to have to do while their new baby finally sleeps is to have to write me a letter saying 'Thanks for the stripy green sleeper. My son barfed breast milk on it last night'. I'd be pleased if they used that moment to have a bath, eat some nourishing food or take a nap themselves.

I felt that somehow, in a warped way, my thank you note was creating the image that I was thankful for this situation. That this disaster that had caused the flood of casseroles and flower arrangements was to be celebrated. But I felt quite the opposite. I was horrified to be in this predicament facing down a life alone with two tiny kids in tow. Every breath was marked by reliving Jeff's death....and here I was writing a missive expressing my gratitude for the kindness bestowed upon us because of his death. "Thank you so very much for your kindness and generosity at this very difficult time..."

But I became obsessed with these notes. I had stacks of them ready to mail at all times. I was so very concerned that someone who had sent something or called or visited had not been given their 'dues' and been noticed or mentioned upon these pieces of card stock. I'd worry that they didn't know how thankful I truly was. I'd attempt to come up with some ingenious or creative thought. I'd stay up so very late into the evening with ink staining my fingertips trying to express my gratitude....and loathing every second of it.

So now, I wish that instead of handing this new widow my phone number with instructions to call if she 'needs' me, I wish that I had told her that if she felt that these tokens of gratitude were entirely necessary, I would write them for her....or instruct her that those who have empathy for what she is going through would tell her that these notes were a waste of energy. That those who were doing it with a truly generous heart would know that she was grateful and comforted. No note needed.

brand name

photo from learning how to live

Doctor

Obsequious

Tattle-tale

Cashier

Humanitarian

Uncle

Artist

Labels are words that used to describe ourselves and others - a way to quickly and efficiently identify traits and tendencies.

When I think about the labels used to describe or identify me, the one that gives me most to think about is 'widow'.

Initially, I despised this branding. I hated the term and what it meant - that my husband was dead. I didn't see myself as the typical widow in black gracefully and wisely fading into the background. I wasn't sure if my personal portrayal of this word was proper or made me a 'good widow'. Somehow this term seemed to mean to me that I had failed.

Over time this feeling has changed. Now I wear this name tag with a little bit of pride and a lot of awe. I have made it this far. Two and a half years ago I would never have believed it. I did not think I would genuinely laugh again. I would not have imagined that I would enjoy life and all its' mysteries. It astounds me.

At the risk of sounding pompous, I am kind of proud of myself. I am stronger that I ever thought possible. I'm not a warrior, but a widow. And I have chosen to get out of bed each morning despite believing that the last morning that mattered had already happened. The loss of my husband has taught me that there are few things in life to be feared and that taking a leap of faith is far less terrifying as I once thought.

Now that I carried the 'medal' of widowhood, I wonder how long do I get to wear it? In five years, does the noun 'widow' get taken from me and get replaced with 'widowed'. Will it cease to be a label and instead become a verb? If I ever enter a relationship again, do I stop being a widow and become one of the ones on Facebook with the status of "Married"? I feel that I would be both....Would "It's complicated" be offbase?

I now wear my label as a mark of my late husband. An etching of "Jeff was here" in my perverbial bark. Although I may be ready for another label or two, I would like to keep my hard-earned 'widow badge', thank you very much.

the anger

Photo from Hardcore Stress Management

**My apologies for the raw and rude wording of this post. It's been written in the heat of the moment but I feel it would lessen it's 'feel' if I softened the wording. I hope no one is offended**

There are times I hate him for dying. Two and a half years later and I could spit fury at his lack of care for his health, for his concern for our welfare, for his love for us.
I feel so lost still at times. So alone. So bereft.
I watch others who have found love again. I see those who have never lost theirs. The jealousy and envy I feel are almost tangible.
The agony of being half of a whole is so filled with melancholy....and at times, humiliation.
Who wants the damaged goods that a widowed mother of two has to offer?
The only people who offer their services as companion or 'lover' are either already 'reserved' or are the kind of human who would whack off on a webcam to an unsuspecting stranger in an attempt to get their thrill.
I am tired of the lack of touch. I could almost molest my hairdresser for gently brushing my hair - and she's a pregnant female. I feel pathetic. And desperate. And furious at Jeff for causing this. Fucking asshole.

come again

I have gone out of my way to avoid the parking lot of our doctor's office for two years and two months. I'd park on the other side of the building and walk the long way to get to my appointment. As I approached the glass doors to the dreaded parking from the opposite entrance I'd avoid looking at one specific tree. This tree marked the spot where Jeff died in my arms. Under the branches of this tree, in our family car he took his last breaths.

I did not think I'd EVER be able to enter that parking lot again. So very time appointments were scheduled only to be attended late because of my pathway of avoidance.

A few days ago the kids and I were running so very late for a visit with our doctor to deal with a run of pinkeye through our house. I sped like I was competing in the Indy 500 only to be stuck in a line-up behind an accident. I had planned to park in our now usual parking area to maintain my avoidance of the scene of our loss but as I screeched around the corner, I was suddenly struck by just how silly this was. I was going to be even later for an appointment because I was afraid. Afraid of what? The worst had already happened in that lot. Was I afraid I would relive losing Jeff all over again? I already do this on a regular basis. Was I scared that I would have a panic attack, not be able to breathe, lose the plot right there in the parking lot? I didn't have this luxury. My kids were with me. I am bullet-proof when my kids need me to be strong for them.

So, in a split second decision I faced that lot down. I didn't park in the exact spot as I had that day in March 2008. But I parked nearby. I grabbed Liv's hand, picked Briar up and ran for the doors. To anyone watching I would have looked like any other mother late for an appointment. They wouldn't have known of the demon I had just conquered. My triumph was unnoticed by anyone but me. My visit to that lot was so very quiet and quick - so unlike the day Jeff died.

I visited the scene of the crime. I'm okay. We're okay. We'll live. I will never forget or enjoy the memory of that day but it can't hurt me more than it already has.